


Unconsciousness

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: Terms of Submission [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Affection, Anal Sex, Commitment, Consensual Somnophilia, Domestic, Dominance, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Love, M/M, Massage, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Porn That Got Really Emotional and Domestic, Romance, Submission, the latest adventure in Sherlock Is The Ultimate Sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Sherlock has a suggestion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would advise reading Sinful first (the prequel to this fic).

They hadn’t talked about it since that night.

Marcus thought about it whenever they slept together, and he knew Sherlock did too. He would slide his hand over Sherlock’s throat, fucking him from behind, and Sherlock would come– just from that small display of dominance, that control over him. He liked being helpless. And Marcus liked being in control.

It wasn’t that their normal sex was unsatisfactory, or anything. Marcus still loved the sounds Sherlock made, still loved kissing him, touching him, fucking him. Before that night, they’d often switched positions, and Marcus supposed he still enjoyed having Sherlock inside him; he especially loved riding Sherlock, but he knew that the _real_ reason he enjoyed it was because he was in control, and Sherlock couldn’t do anything but beg for him to move his hips faster. That night had changed him. It’d changed them both.

He wanted to talk to Sherlock about it, but he was afraid. He’d hurt Sherlock– and yeah, they’d agreed on it beforehand, but it still scared him when he remembered how much he’d enjoyed it. He kept thinking of his father, and a small, poisonous part of his brain wondered whether they shared the same brand of violence. That thought was very quickly derailed, however– Marcus knew that a tendency towards sexual dominance didn’t at all equate to alcoholism and familial abuse.

Besides, he knew himself. And he _knew_ he was nothing like his father.

Maybe it was just that he was so out of his depth. He’d never had a partner like Sherlock, after all, and he wasn’t quite sure how to casually bring up their sex life when they weren’t fucking.

Good thing Sherlock didn’t possess the same shyness.

 

***

 

“Have you ever heard of somnophilia?”

Marcus looked up from his dinner, frowning. “What?”

Sherlock folded his arms on the kitchen table, flicked aside the case file he’d been reading while he ate. His face was carefully expressionless, but Marcus could see the glint of excitement in his eyes.

“I asked,” Sherlock said slowly, “whether you’ve ever heard of somnophilia.”

“Uh,” Marcus swallowed, put down his fork, his beer and steak utterly forgotten, “No.”

“It is the act of having sex with, or becoming aroused by, someone who is unconscious.”

Marcus’ eyes widened. He sat back in his seat, disturbed.

“…You mean _rape?”_

“No. What I would like to discuss with you is the concept of _consensual_ somnophilia.”

 Marcus opened his mouth, closed it again, not sure how to reply. He considered the excitement in Sherlock’s eyes, and realised very quickly where this was heading.

“You want me to have sex with you while you’re… unconscious?” He hedged uneasily. He picked up the serviette that had been resting beside his plate and started to toy with it, rubbing it between his thumbs and forefingers nervously. He saw Sherlock glance at his fidgeting movements.

“Not entirely,” Sherlock replied calmly, “I’m adverse to drug use, as you know, so I wouldn’t be entirely unconscious. What I would like, more realistically, is for you to have sex with me while I am exhausted.”

Marcus frowned. He slowly tore a rip in the corner of the serviette, and thought of the way Sherlock would pull him close when he was tired, the way he’d demand in breathy whispers for Marcus to fuck him. Marcus had always said no, but he’d always known why Sherlock was asking; Sherlock’s mind whirled around at insane speeds, and he craved the peace of nothingness, the quietness of oblivion. It was the reason he was attracted to BDSM at all– and the same reason he’d become so addicted to narcotics.

“…You mean… the way you are at the end of a case, or somethin’…? When you’re overworked?”

Sherlock nodded, looking pleased. “Precisely.”

“…Yeah, I guess I just… I don’t know how I feel ‘bout havin’ sex with someone when they’re barely awake.”

“I wouldn’t be _intoxicated,_ Marcus. I would be fully able to give consent.”

“Yeah, I know, but-”

“I’m not asking you to suddenly start having sex with me while I am sleeping, Marcus,” Sherlock patiently explained, “though, honestly, I wouldn’t be adverse to the idea.”

Marcus sighed wearily, and put the now-shredded serviette onto the table. “What’re you sayin’ then?”

“I’m saying that I would like to surrender to you, utterly and completely. I’m saying that I want you to take me to lengths I can never reach while fully awake.” Sherlock glanced down at the table, licking slowly at his lips. “I find the idea of being dominated by you, in such a context, extremely erotic.”

Marcus swallowed thickly.

Sherlock looked up, his gaze heavier now, full of lust.

“We wouldn’t even need bondage,” he said quietly, “you needn’t hurt me in the way you dislike. All you’d need to do is take your time. I would be utterly vulnerable to you.”

Marcus held his gaze, feeling a familiar blooming warmth in his stomach, creeping lower, down past his abdomen. He shifted in his seat, knew Sherlock could see him imagining it, picturing what it would be like. He cleared his throat and reached for his beer. Pretended he wasn't thinking of Sherlock pliant and limp under him, gasping quietly.

“I dunno,” he shortly replied, his cheeks burning with an embarrassed blush as Sherlock grinned.

“We can discuss it at length before we engage in such an activity, of course.”

“I said I dunno, Sherlock, a’ight?” Marcus sighed shakily, wishing his proclivities weren’t so fucking obvious. “I’ll think ‘bout it.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. Marcus resumed eating.

 

 ***

 

 That night, he fucked Sherlock harder than he had in weeks.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (warning for an abduction case in this chapter, but nothing explicit or too triggering~)

The concept of being able to ‘think about it’ was slightly ruined by the fact that Marcus and Sherlock spent nearly every single day together.

They worked together at the precinct. They went home together, most nights, either to the brownstone or to Marcus’ apartment. They went out for coffee together, when Sherlock suddenly stood up in the middle of a case and announced that he needed caffeine to stimulate his detective prowess. They went out for dinner, they went out for lunch, they sat under the stars and talked about space together. They were _always_ together.

And hell, Marcus loved it. He loved the way it was uncomplicated, the way they never got tired of each other because they were on exactly the same level; when they wanted to fuck, they fucked, and when they wanted to just sit and talk, that could happen too. Sherlock, for all his faults, was the best communicator Marcus had ever met, and they’d only gotten into one or two memorable fights– which had been resolved remarkably quickly, owing to the intense (and, frankly, _adorable)_ panic Sherlock seemed to feel whenever he had a falling-out with someone he was close to.

He loved that they were undefined. Were they dating? Maybe. Were they lovers? Definitely. But it was more than that, more than any label could define. They were perfect.

But he did need space to think about this.

And Sherlock must’ve known, must’ve sensed it; one afternoon, when they were going home together from the precinct, Sherlock paused as he opened the door to Marcus’ car, an expression of indecision on his face.

“What’s up?” Marcus had asked, peering out at him from the driver’s seat.

Sherlock sighed, got in the car, and stared thoughtfully out the window. Marcus looked expectantly at him, and did not start the car yet, sensing Sherlock had something on his mind.

“You’ve been acting differently,” Sherlock eventually said, “since I brought up my proposal for our next sexual exploration.”

Marcus looked away, out the windscreen. He let the silence stretch on, not sure how to reply. It would’ve been useless to try and deny it.

“I know you need time to think about this. And, if you need a reprieve from my company while you do so, all you need to do is ask.” Sherlock’s tone was calm and straightforward. “I value our relationship. I don’t want to push you into this decision.”

 “I think… I think I do need space. Yeah. I do.” It felt relieving to get the words out; Marcus sighed shakily and turned to Sherlock, chewing nervously on his lip. “I just don’t want you to think that I… don’t want you around, y’know? I really love bein’ around you, Sherlock, and I-”

Sherlock leaned across the car and kissed him.

Marcus let his eyes fall closed. They kissed for a short while, tender and gentle, before Sherlock pulled away. Marcus resisted the urge to glance fearfully around the parking lot and check whether anyone had seen, instead choosing to focus on the kind smile that was blooming on Sherlock’s face.

“Take all the time you need,” Sherlock said softly, “Marcus.”

Marcus nodded.

Sherlock got out of the car, slid his hands into his pockets, and walked away.

 

***

 

Their case went wrong, and Marcus completely forgot about Sherlock’s proposal.

Their suspect was killing young girls, after abducting them and doing unspeakable things to them in his basement. He’d fled the city, and a rash of abductions all over the country were being left in his wake.

They were liaising with other precincts, and even the FBI. The case had received national attention, which meant news coverage– resulting in, of course, even more pressure. Marcus wasn’t sleeping at night, and neither were Joan or Sherlock. They stayed awake and read through case files for as long as they could, fuelled by caffeine and sheer determination, exhausted and furious.

Marcus found himself wondering how humanity could have fallen so far.

He and Sherlock lay together, falling into Sherlock’s bed in a mess of blankets and tired limbs, and sex was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. When Sherlock turned towards Marcus and kissed him, it was simply a desperate plea for comfort.

One morning, in the midst of the case, Marcus rose around 5AM. He looked down at Sherlock. Stared, transfixed, at his slackened face, the alluring angle of his jaw and his cheekbones. Considered the grey blemishes under his eyes, borne of pure sleep deprivation. Marcus thought about how hard Sherlock had been working; harder than anyone else, harder than all the other precincts and the FBI put together. Sherlock was haunted by the faces of the little girls in the reports, distraught and furious that _he,_ personally, hadn’t yet managed to put this man behind bars. He saw it as a personal failure, a disgrace of his own making– and every girl that was hurt was, in his mind, on his conscience.

Marcus thought back on what Sherlock had asked him. Thought about how Sherlock had wanted to be weak, helpless, vulnerable. And Marcus realised that it made sense. Sherlock had a mind that never stopped spinning, never stopped working and deducing and analysing. This case was killing him because his supercomputer of a brain continued to bombard him with images and realisations and truths. Things that scared him. Sherlock knew what was happening to those girls, and it was happening to him too, in the dark recesses of his mind.

He just wanted to let go.

 

***

 

Sherlock gazed through the one-way window, into the interrogation room. Tiredness made everything float and shimmer, the fluorescent room glowing like the inside of a spaceship. He had eyes only for the man sitting at the table. He had a thick neck, strong shoulders, and small, dark eyes. Cruel eyes. Knowledge of what that man had been doing, what those hands had done, made Sherlock feel ill. He felt Gregson’s hand land on his shoulder, and he swayed with the impact.

“You did it,” Gregson’s voice was filled with glee, “you caught him.”

Sherlock tried to smile, but the expression was fleeting, and he felt his eyes slide closed– it was only when he felt Marcus’ hand against his chest that he realised he’d lurched forward.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you okay?” Gregson demanded.

“You need some rest,” Joan quietly said.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked directly at Marcus. Into his eyes, pleading. Begging for Marcus to give him what he needed. Marcus nodded imperceptibly, taking his hand in one smooth, gentle motion. Sherlock saw, out of the corner his eye, Gregson glancing down at the movement, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The Captain wasn’t homophobic, and he’d get over the shock of their relationship soon enough.

“Let’s get you home,” Marcus said softly.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

He took Sherlock back to the brownstone, because this was all about making Sherlock comfortable; about Sherlock knowing he could let go.

Sherlock stood beside the bed, rocking unsteadily on his feet as Marcus undressed him. His eyes were closed, and Marcus’ chest was tight with the knowledge that, right now, Sherlock was putting everything in Marcus’ hands. The exhaustion that filled Sherlock was bone-deep, and when Marcus touched his skin he seemed to shake at the contact, as if his very soul was crying for relief. He didn’t resist as Marcus undid the buttons on his shirt, slid the fabric off his shoulders.

“Tell me what you need,” Marcus asked quietly as he got down on his knees, unzipped Sherlock’s fly, “tell me what you want me to do.”

“Make me sleep,” Sherlock whispered, head tilting back in a slow motion of fatigue, loose and heavy as if his neck couldn’t handle the weight of his skull, “touch me, Marcus…”

Sherlock’s body swayed a little as Marcus pulled down his jeans.

“…Fuck me, even after I’ve come,” Sherlock breathed, “overstimulate me. No rough play, just… fuck me slow. Don’t stop. Even if I fall unconscious, or into subspace. Empty my mind of anything I can understand.”

“Are you sure you want to do this today?” Marcus gently lifted Sherlock’s ankles so he could pull Sherlock’s pants off him. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Yes.”

“Your safeword?”

“Same as always.”

“Say it for me.” Marcus hooked his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear, looked up at him. He felt, suddenly, that this scene was appropriate; him, on his knees before Sherlock, so desperate to please him, so desperate to help him. He might’ve been the dominant partner, but he was a slave to Sherlock’s needs.

He loved it.

“I need to hear you say it,” Marcus continued softly, drawing one of his thumbs over Sherlock’s hip, “and I need to know you’ll use it if you have to.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. Looked down at Marcus, dazedly.

“Moriarty. My safeword is Moriarty.”

“And you’ll use it?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, Marcus,” Sherlock’s eyes fell closed, “I promise.”

Marcus nodded, and pulled down Sherlock’s underwear.

 

***

 

He guided Sherlock onto the bed, eased him down onto his back. Sherlock’s body was stiff and rigid, and the toll of stress and sleeplessness had left his eyes bruised. Marcus slid his hands over Sherlock’s body gently, leaning down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Relax for me,” he breathed, “just relax.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily. Marcus reached into the bedside table, where he’d left a tube of massage oil purely for this purpose– he’d been considering this, after all, for almost a week now. Sherlock regarded him with hooded eyes and a curious gaze.

“Trust me,” Marcus smirked as he coated his palms in the oil, “you’ll enjoy this.”

Sherlock smiled too, a tired relief plain in his expression.

“Thank you, Marcus,” he said softly.

Marcus kissed him again. “Turn over.”

Sherlock did, with Marcus’ help. His eyes slid closed as Marcus’ hands landed on his back, gripping his shoulders. He let out a low moan as Marcus slowly dug the heels of his palms into tight, over-worked muscles.

“Let go,” Marcus murmured. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock wanted to cry with how good it felt. Instead, he hummed in agreement, and Marcus continued to massage him.

 

***

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long Marcus touched him for. It seemed to go on forever. The strong hands against his back were exquisitely skilful; they kneaded at knotted muscles, pressed into the tightest and most painful areas of Sherlock’s rigid back, pushed lightly at the base of Sherlock’s skull, working away the tension as if Marcus’ touch had a direct line to Sherlock’s brain. The stiffness that had locked up Sherlock’s body for too long melted away, disappeared in increments, until Sherlock was loose and limp on the bed, feeling a liquid relaxation pump steadily through his veins. He was half-hard, but he was too relaxed to be properly turned on. His mind staggered between unconsciousness and waking, and he never wanted to move again.

“You like this?” Marcus asked quietly. He was sitting just behind Sherlock’s ass, his thighs warm and heavy.

“Mm,” Sherlock’s voice rolled out of his throat, silky with laziness, “I do.”

Marcus’ fingers wandered down his spine. “You still want me?”

A tired pulse of arousal threaded itself through Sherlock’s heartbeat. The idea of Marcus inside him was heavenly. He felt the allure of sex, the vulnerability of it, calling to him– and he not only _wanted_ it, he _needed_ it. The fact he wasn’t even fully hard made it even better. He wanted to be used.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Marcus’ hands wandered further downwards. Kneading at the flesh of Sherlock’s ass, gently but firmly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Remind me what your safeword is.”

“Marcus-”

“I need to make sure you know it.”

“That is,” Sherlock sighed, his words a garbled hush of breath, “ridiculous, Marcus, you know that I-”

“Tell me your safeword, and I’ll fuck you until the sun comes up. Don’t…” Marcus ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s ass, “...and I will stop. Right here, right now.”

Sherlock felt his cock harden, where it was trapped between his abdomen and the sheets.

“Moriarty,” he replied, swallowing, “Moriarty.”

“Good.” Marcus reached over to the bedside table again, “Very good, baby.”

Sherlock heard a quiet tap as the massage oil was placed on the bedside table, and then the pop of a cap as Marcus undid the lid of the lube. He shifted in anticipation, and felt Marcus’ hand come down gently on the small of his back.

“Just relax. Relax for me.”

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. He let his muscles relax, let himself fall pliant.

Marcus continued to massage his ass, and it was only when his fingers began to probe around Sherlock’s rim that a blush, hot and embarrassed, heated Sherlock’s cheeks. He’d always been particularly responsive to this kind of attention, and Marcus knew it; Sherlock heard a quiet chuckle from behind him, and he buried his face in the pillow, focussing on breathing deeply. Marcus continued to massage him.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute,” Marcus murmured, when he finally pushed one finger, very slowly, into Sherlock.

Sherlock inhaled slowly at the intrusion, feeling his head swim with the desire to sleep, torn between exhaustion and arousal. One of Marcus’ hands held his hip, and Sherlock was overcome with how _perfect_ this was; he felt so exposed, so vulnerable and tired, protected by– and helpless to– the dominance with which Marcus was treating him. Tears filled his eyes, for a reason he couldn’t properly explain, and he knew that the senseless emotion of an overcome submissive was starting to take hold of him.

Marcus added another finger, and Sherlock whimpered.

“Shh,” Marcus leaned down, kissed between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, “I got you. I got you.”

Sherlock lay there, trying to breathe, and tears were suddenly flowing. The emotional distress and psychological exhaustion of the case he’d just solved was breaking him, his every sense heightened and overstimulated by the perfection of Marcus’ hands. He felt his barriers crumble. He started to cry.

“Shh, Sherlock, it’s alright. Shh.”

Marcus added a third finger. Sherlock knew there were noises, helpless and high-pitched, falling from his mouth, but he couldn’t stop them. Marcus was kissing his neck, mouthing at his skin, the press of his tongue wet and sensual.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

Sherlock didn’t have time to tense up, to anticipate the pain; suddenly, Marcus was pressing into him, slowly and carefully, and a moan was catching in Sherlock’s throat, broken and breathless.

“That’s it, that’s it…” Marcus eased himself in further, his hips coming to rest flush against Sherlock’s ass, his weight settling on top of Sherlock’s back, “that’s it, open up for me. You’re so good, Sherlock. So good for me.”

Sherlock let out a sob. He hard Marcus hush him, as strong arms wrapped around his body, pressing them together. Marcus buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, breathing out heavily– Sherlock could barely breathe at all, feeling suffocated by the weight of Marcus’ body. But the pressure inside him, Marcus’ cock filling him up, the helplessness of being unable to move at all– it filled his tired mind with a white-hot and unexpected swell of _need,_ and suddenly he was stiffening, going rigid as he came.

He trembled, and then went still again. Every single ounce of tension drained from his body. His eyes fell closed, heavily.

“Please,” he mumbled, “please.”

Marcus kissed his cheek. Moved his hips, slowly, in a way that made Sherlock’s body sway.

“I got you,” he whispered, again.

And Sherlock knew it was the truth.

 

***

 

Sherlock didn’t know how long it went on. He knew he fell asleep, at one stage, because he woke up on his back, dragged from the depths of unconsciousness by the warmth inside him, the feeling of pleasure that bordered on pain. He looked up at Marcus, barely able to focus, and the knowledge that Marcus had rolled him onto his back, arranged his body, and then resumed fucking him, had Sherlock coming for the second time that night.

He shook with the overstimulation, too tired to cry. He felt like he was in heaven. His hands, loosely curled on the bedsheets, rolled with the thrusts of Marcus’ hips.

“You’re so beautiful,” Marcus murmured, as he ran his hands over Sherlock’s body, “you love this, don’t you?”

His tone was gentle, and it was the last thing Sherlock heard before he fell unconscious again.

 

***

 

Marcus could barely hold himself back.

Sherlock looked too perfect, lying limp as Marcus slowly made love to him. His brown body was swaying gently with thrusts, his tattoos slick and stark with the moisture of massage oil. The fact that Sherlock had let himself go like this, had surrendered to Marcus in such a profound and intense way, made Marcus shake with the power he held. There was something unbelievably erotic about the way Sherlock’s head gently lolled to the side, eyes closed, mouth parted in sleep. Marcus reached a hand forward, hips moving faster as he slid his thumb over Sherlock’s lips, curled two fingers into Sherlock’s mouth.

God. He wanted to come so badly.

Sherlock’s eyes opened dazedly, unfocussed. His tongue wetly slipped over Marcus’ fingers, weak breaths falling from his mouth every time Marcus thrust into him. Marcus knew that this wasn’t rough roleplay, so he didn’t grab Sherlock’s hair and bite his neck, like he wished he could– but Marcus did lean forward, fingers holding Sherlock’s jaw open as he slid his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock whined, and Marcus realised how fast he’d started to move.

“Fuck, _Sherlock_ ,” he whispered. He knew he should slow down, make this last longer, but he was so close.

“Fill me up,” Sherlock murmured, his voice slurred, “fill me up, Marcus. I want it…”

“Shit,” Marcus pulled out, decision made. He yanked off the condom, grabbed Sherlock’s hips, and thrust into him again; Sherlock arched off the bed, his mouth opening in a dazed gasp. Marcus smothered Sherlock with his body, and started fucking him hard as he could, so fast that the bed shook. Sherlock hung limply under him, moaning weakly.

“Fuck, Sherlock, _fuck-”_

He came.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Marcus cleaned Sherlock with a dampened handtowel, snagged from the bathroom across the hall.

It felt reverent. A sacred act. Sherlock was sleeping soundly, exhaling quietly and slowly, and he didn’t wake up or offer resistance as Marcus lifted and then gently placed his limbs, holding up his legs and arms so that he could clean Sherlock’s body properly. Marcus, sated from his climax and dizzy with a warm, docile sort of contentment, gazed at every inch of Sherlock’s skin as if he were in worship. This kind of trust, this sort of commitment, was something he’d never before experienced. Sherlock had given himself over, wholly and completely, repeatedly. Over and over again.

Marcus had known married couples that had never even come close to that kind of devotion.

In any other context, he’d have swallowed thickly, blushed, and moved on from the thought. As it was, he sat on the edge of the bed, half-turned to watch Sherlock sleep, and thought about his parents. He thought about the love they had shared, and the bruises it had left on both partners. He thought about every person he had ever known, and the relationships he’d seen fall into nastiness and resentment. He thought of Irene. Of Moriarty.

In the quiet room, dust motes lazily circling, illuminated by the hazy glow of a streetlight streaming through the window, Marcus felt so far away from the cruelty that relationships could bring. Sherlock’s skin was the colour of coffee, the slopes of his thighs and his chest mesmerising and unique. There were blooming blushes of redness on his skin, from where Marcus had kissed him and sucked against his skin. Every curve, every bead of sweat, every line of ink carved into his body, everything Marcus could see lying before him; he was entrusting Marcus with all of it. He was giving it away, falling to his knees, allowing Marcus to have him any way he liked. Asleep. Tied up. Gagged. Bound.

Marcus looked away, let his eyes fall closed. He felt himself start to cry, but he was smiling.

He didn’t know what their relationship meant, in the long term, and he wouldn’t have known what to introduce Sherlock as if someone had asked. They certainly weren’t a normal couple, and he didn’t even know if this would last. But, in that moment, the reality of trust revealed itself to him in a silently profound epiphany, he felt that anything was possible. He could see himself and Sherlock as old men, as two people who had come to the end of their lives and still cared about one another. He could see them weathering the inevitable storms that life would bring, and facing it all head-on. Hands clasped tight in the face of what they feared.

And he wanted it. He wanted it forever.

 

***

 

“You two want coffee?”

“Please.”

Marcus got out three mugs, started preparing the coffee in the way he knew everyone liked. Behind him, Joan and Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, eagerly anticipating their morning caffeine hit. Joan was hurriedly munching on a grain cereal, and Sherlock was watching her with an unveiled distaste.

“I don’t understand how you can eat that swill, Watson. Why not ingest some _real_ food to begin your day?”

“How about,” Joan began calmly, as she stood and finished off the last of the cereal, “you ingest any food at all?”

“Marcus will get me some food.”

“Will I?” Marcus glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock smiled at him, and Marcus grinned back.

“I am content to simply watch you force that cardboard down your throat,” Sherlock continued, watching as Joan crossed the kitchen to place her now-empty bowl in the sink.

“Well, the fun’s over. I’ve got a case.” Joan kissed Marcus on the cheek, waved vaguely at Sherlock as she strode away. The sound of the front door closing followed almost immediately.

“…She forgot her coffee.” Marcus frowned after her.

“She’s somewhat stressed, I think. Better to let her have her forgetful moments, if it means she’ll be able to attend to this case with her full attention. I’ll take her coffee.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a conflict of interest there,” Marcus remarked dryly, as he walked over and deposited two coffees in front of Sherlock, “you sure you should drink that much in one morning?”

Sherlock dryly raised an eyebrow. “Have you _met_ me, Marcus?”

“Unfortunately, I have.” Marcus joked as he leaned over, kissing him shortly on the forehead before turning back to the kitchen bench. “Did you actually want breakfast? I can make you eggs.”

“No, I’d prefer you sit and enjoy a coffee with me.”

Marcus took his coffee in hand, and sat next to Sherlock. They drank their beverages in silence, the faint sound of a radio humming from somewhere in the house.

“You were up early this morning. Why was that?”

Marcus looked up, shrugged in a way that he hoped passed as casual, and continued drinking his coffee. He didn’t want Sherlock to know about his little epiphany. Better he not ruin all this by putting a label on their relationship; even if he had, for a moment, entertained the idea of what it would be like to get down on one knee in front of Sherlock and ask the big question. What it would be like to be married to Sherlock Holmes.

“No reason,” he replied lightly, “just couldn’t sleep for a while.”

Sherlock nodded, in a way that plainly showed he’d caught the lie. “I’d like to thank you for last night. I know you were hesitant about engaging with me in such a way, but it genuinely did help.”

Marcus frowned. “You ain’t gotta thank me.”

“I do. You did me a great service.” Sherlock paused. “That’s the first time I’ve slept in about a week.”

Marcus felt a pull of sympathy. He reached over, touched his fingers to the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“I know,” he said, quietly, “but you don’t have to thank me. I’d do anythin’ for you.”

They held each other’s gazes for a long while.

Eventually, Sherlock broke the spell, by parting his lips and nodding, eyes flickering away as a pink blush rose to his cheeks. Marcus’ smile widened; he recognised embarrassment when he saw it.

“You put your fingers in my mouth last night,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat and looking to the side of Marcus’ face, “while we were having sex.”

Marcus blinked.

“Did I?” He asked, voice coming out higher pitched than usual.

“Yes. Quite a dominant thing to do. Very… erotic.” Sherlock looked at him again, shyly this time, fidgeting. “I… found that I quite liked it.”

Marcus laughed incredulously, and shook his head in disbelief. Grinning, he reached over and gently took Sherlock’s chin in his hand, running his thumb over the swell of Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock let his mouth fall open slightly, his eyelids lowering. Marcus wondered whether he even knew he was doing it, or whether his deductive brain was switched off in moments like this.

“What am I gonna do with you?” Marcus asked quietly. He didn’t know who the question was directed at.

“I can think of a few things.”

Marcus laughed again. He leaned over, kissed Sherlock deeply.

“Let’s get started then,” he replied.

 

 


End file.
